Underground
by we were here
Summary: One foot on the brake, one on the throttle. - Because canon girls need love too.


**disclaim: **SE Hinton owns The Outsiders. "Devil In Disguise" is a song by Elvis Presley. "Talkin' 2 Myself" is a song by Eminem, which I based this fic on (also stole a few lyrics from to make as the summary).**  
a/n:** just a drabble I wrote about Angela Shepard, containing a bunch of random shit that I don't feel like explaining. :)

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**Underground**

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Tim's locked up for another week, Curly's out getting shitfaced at Bennie De Luca's place, and you?

You're staring at your ceiling while Elvis' belts pound against the walls, radio blasted so loud that you can no longer hear your heart beating. Only hear his long chords, some song talking about how _you look like an angel, talk like an angel, walk like an angel _or some random shit like that which forces you to remember how messed up everything is.

Ever since Dallas died at the end of September, Sylvia's been nothing but a complete bitch to you – not that she'd never been one before, but it still fucking hurts to see her glaring at you in the school halls and know that your carefully constructed relationship has been blown to fuckin' pieces. Like it was your fault that Winston shot himself down just 'cuz you's a Shepard. You'd tell her to go fuck herself, but you just don't have the strength to do it.

Everything's been rocky with Evie after she broke up with Steve right before Christmas Break, so now you're stuck with little Katie Mathews, but she's too much of a goody-two-shoes to step out of her house in the dead of winter wearing a skirt that barely covers her thighs and high-heels.

Clearly, that girl ain't never heard of Buck's before. Or maybe she has. Whatever the reason is, this thought somehow brings your twisted mind to a certain Ponyboy Curtis. He's pretty damn cute, though he's almost a foot taller than you – hell, everyone is when you're barely over five feet tall. The auburn's starting to grow back over his bleached hair, and it's sad to admit you secretly missed it. You're not quite sure if you have a crush on him or not, but each time you catch him waving at you from across the school parking lot your stomach lurches and you force yourself to swallow down the pride. Thank God he sits at the opposite end of your Spanish class, or else you'd pretty much lose it if he even tried to say hi.

_. . . You fooled me with your kisses, you cheated and you schemed . . .  
_

The chorus starts to build, higher and higher and you find yourself singing along until you feel as if your lungs are about to burst from the exertion. Sinking back into your bed, you flip through an old issue of _Seventeen_ you found on your vanity table for the fifth time that night, wondering what the hell you're going to do with yourself for the next week and a half until classes resume and you're swept up into the _sweetsweetsweet_ chaos of take-and-don't-give-back.

Tomorrow's Christmas Day, and you wonder if you'll be able to wake up early enough to attend Mass before Frank notices you're missing. Maybe you could drag your mother round just to re-enforce the crumbling relationship and tell her that you still love her no matter what, but the thought instantly recoils when you remember what she does during the few hours she's actually awake.

Snow's started to fall outside the window and you shiver, wrapping yourself up in the two blankets you're goddamn lucky to have. Your bedroom's the only room in the whole house that's lock still isn't broken besides the bathroom, and you snuggle deeper into the mattress, suddenly craving privacy. It's nights like these that make you tense, the hours so long and dark that it amazes you how people still exist, how life's still moving forward while you're stuck behind, running down a never-ending tunnel towards the light you'll never be able to seize.

Pills have been your only relief from nights like these, and as sad as it is to admit (even to yourself) you're not quite sure what you'd do without the little white capsules you keep overdosing on. Frankly, you don't ever want to know 'cuz that's another story for another time that you don't feel like explaining.

Grabbing the tiny, orange bottle of anti-depressants off the nightstand prescribed to a _Mr. Timothy A. Shepard _(no wonder why he kept bitching about where his pills had disappeared to before he got locked up), you twist the lid off and shake a few pills into your hand, feeling as if the bottom of your stomach is going to fall out due to the ever-present sense of guilt.

You could _die_ tonight, but right now you don't fucking care.

All you need is relief. And relief comes in three little white capsules, maybe more if you haven't swallowed them all yet.

You reach down and swipe the half-empty bottle of Bourbon off the floor, shoving the pills into your mouth and tipping the bottle back to take a long deserved sip. Unfortunately, it's been _too too long _and as a result, the warm liquid burns your nostrils _so so much_ and scorches down your throat like fire.

The song on the radio slowly drones out in the background, Elvis' voice getting fuzzier and fuzzier until all you can hear is white noise. Your vision is blurring and you shut your eyes to get rid of the dull ache starting at the back of your head.

Tim's locked up for another week, Curly's out getting shitfaced at Bennie De Luca's place, and you?

You're getting high off anti-depressants that aren't yours, staring at the light you've been chasing behind closed eyelids. _So, so close _and then, just like that, it's gone, dissolving into the blackness and it's _so so hot _that you're fucking cold.

Suddenly, everything comes back and slams into you like a brick wall, hurling you into the cold and the darkness and the single thought that you might never breathe again as you close your mouth to silence a scream. Nails clutch the sheets around you and you hear something tear in half, whether it's you or the sheets and then you're falling, _down and down and down._

You crash to the floor with a _thud, _hear glass shatter as it splints the white noise in half and hope against hope that you'll wake up tomorrow morning. 'Cuz if you don't, that's another story for another time that you're sure Tim or Curly won't ever feel like explaining.

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a/n: **any thoughts you may have are always appreciated. :)


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